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I reached out and brushed a stray lock of hair from his brow, remembering the horror of those deaths at sea. "All right. I did promise."

We reached the de Toluard estate in blue dusk. It looked like a pleasant place—a gracious manor house with tall cypress trees surrounding it like sentinels. I breathed in their sharp, piney fragrance, willing them to lend me their proud strength in whatever was to come.

"Lady Moirin." Denis de Toluard gave me the kiss of greeting in the foyer. He looked far more serious than I remembered. Even his curly brown hair looked subdued. "My thanks for consenting to assist us. Come, I'll introduce you to the others."

There were six of them all told, all of them in their mid- to late-twenties. Later, Raphael told me they had all studied together at the Academy of Occult Philosophy. I greeted the first one with a shock of recognition.

"We've met," Lianne Tremaine said in acknowledgment. "Welcome, my lady."

"What further gifts might the youngest King's Poet in the history of Terre d'Ange possibly seek?" I asked, genuinely curious.

She tilted her head, lamplight making her topaz eyes flare. "There are always further thresholds to cross. I seek words of such surpassing beauty that they might melt the hardest heart of stone."

"Oh."

I met the other three. Balric Maitland, a silversmith with broad shoulders and strong, sinewy hands. A quiet, unassuming archivist and language scholar named Claire Fourcay, who cast longing glances in Raphael's direction when she thought no one was watching. The last was another linguist, Orien de Legasse, a pretty, fragile-looking lad whose pale blond hair put me in mind of Jehanne. He wore glass spectacles with gold rims that made his eyes look owlish.

The Circle of Shalomon.

There were no servants present in the parlor. Denis de Toluard poured us cups of a strong, fiery cordial himself.

"To success," he said, raising his cup in toast. "To knowledge!"

I echoed the toast dutifully and drank.

Raphael's eyes glinted. "The hour's nearly upon us." He laid one hand on my shoulder. "Shall we?"

Claire Fourcay sniffed. "What exactly do you expect her to do, my lord de Mereliot?"

"Oh, I don't know." He smiled at me. "But wondrous things seem to occur when Moirin summons her magic. Give her a chance, won't you? We've tried everything else."

She sniffed again. "She makes our numbers wrong."

Raphael ran his hand down my arm and took my hand in his, entwining our fingers. "Consider us one flesh."

"Let's just get on with it," Balric Maitland said curtly.

Denis de Toluard beckoned. "Come."

We followed him to a hidden doorway and traipsed down a set of stone stairs to a lower level. I felt man-made stone closing all around and above me and shivered. Raphael's fingers tightened on mine.

"Breathe," he whispered in my ear.

I breathed.

There was an antechamber that might have been a cellar once. I smelled the faint, lingering odor of root vegetables. Now it was lit by a handful of clear-burning lamps, shadows flickering in the corners. There were shelves with garments of white linen laid ready and waiting, and a standing washbasin in the center of the room. The water smelled of an herb I didn't know.

"Hyssop," Raphael said in response to my inquiring glance.

One by one, the members of the Circle stripped and donned the white linen robes, then washed their hands and faces in the basin. I followed suit. The flagstones were cool and moist beneath my bare feet. The water felt good. And then the silversmith Balric went around, handing out engraved medallions on silver chains.

I examined the design. "What is this?"

"One side bears the Seal of Shalomon; the other, the sigil of Valac." He hung it around my neck, gazing at me with hooded eyes. "One of the lesser spirits. That is who we seek to summon tonight."

"Oh."

Raphael's hand slid beneath my hair. "A modest beginning," he said. "Valac's gift is to reveal things hidden." He smiled at me. "Particularly serpents.